What Is and What Should Be
by satan-chillin
Summary: The injury is more than a mere connection to Chuck, Sam realizes as he sees various flashes of alternate realities that center around him and Rowena. (Where the God wound comes to a head within the second and third episodes.) Spoilers inside.


There's a sedated air on their way to return to the high school, and all things considered, the atmosphere is pretty lax.

No one spoke during the entire return trip, and upon their arrival, they go on their separate ways. Dean goes somewhere half-expecting Sam to follow while Cas makes a half-hearted excuse to check on the residents.

Watching Cas leave after his gaze lingered on Dean's back makes Sam want to sigh in exasperation for the both of them but mostly for his brother. Really, they need to get their shit together.

"Yikes," Belphegor says when he reads the exchange. "Not that I care, but is nobody going to take care of that?"

"They're big boys who can handle their quarrel," Rowena says when Sam thought she was the first to leave them. "Samuel and I have things to discuss."

Sam frowns at her, though he's more startled when she takes his right arm and leads them both away from Belphegor. He's too exhausted to protest or pry himself from her hold, which is surprising, especially her strength. That, or Sam's letting her out of his confusion.

Then again, this is Rowena he's talking about.

"Rowena?" he finally asks when they stop in front of the school library. "What are we doing here?"

"Luring the Chief to make out with him somewhere quiet and secluded."

Sam blanches and feels warm at the back of his neck. "Wha—"

Rowena smirks up at him and pulls him inside with her. The room smells musty and the specks of dust are almost visible, but her sudden absence from his side is the first thing he notices.

"Sit," she orders, and Sam's too dumbfounded that he sits at the nearest monobloc.

While Sam is fully aware that she's pulling his leg and flirting is second nature with her, he can't help but be self-conscious when she stands in front of him and gives him a quick glance over.

Rowena edges closer between Sam's long, spread legs, and, okay, she's clearly teasing him if her smirk is to go by, but the twist of anticipation in Sam's stomach is unmistakable.

All too quickly, Rowena leans back and crosses her arms. "So you shot Chuck."

It takes Sam a swallow and a moment to register what she said. That was intentional, he realizes. She wants to take him off-guard. Rowena raises an eyebrow further up, waiting for an answer.

"I did," Sam replies once he's composed enough.

"And?"

"And what?"

"The wound, Samuel," she says. "What did you do with it?"

"I cleaned it with disinfectant."

Rowena stares at him a second longer. "That's it?"

Sam shrugs his good shoulder.

Rowena rolls her eyes. "Fine. Show me."

Sam hesitates. He remembers when Cas checked on it and the flashes it brought in the forefront of his mind. Sam didn't have the time to dwell on the images of him with dark eyes and snapping Dean's neck with his former psychic abilities, but now that he does…

It's all behind him now, Sam tries to convince himself. There's no way that is a future they're leading on, not when it has been years since he last consumed demon blood.

Sam falters when he knows it's not impossible for it to happen again.

"Och. I suppose you don't always get a woman asking you to strip first," Rowena says, pursing her lips. Her small hands find the buttons of Sam's shirt, and the next thing he sees is her pushing the flannel back to expose his injured shoulder.

In a different scenario, Sam is aware that he'll find it exciting that someone's taking control over him, but what he feels now is worry.

Worry that Rowena will see something more terrible, like the injury festering and becoming fatal and will take Sam soon than he expected. Worry that Sam will see more flashes of him drunk on demon blood again and killing Dean and everyone else, like the civilians they're presently protecting, Cas, Rowena…

Sam dreads to see a vision of him killing her.

Rowena murmurs a Latin incantation, and Sam waits for the painful prick on the wound similar to when Cas did it.

Except the sensation that spreads throughout Sam is a cool wave of magic coming from Rowena's fingertips, and against his better judgement, Sam relaxes, the weariness from the day seeping into his bones as if preparing him for rest.

Sam almost melts on the seat, absently noting that Rowena's incantation shifts to Gaelic. His eyes dart up to Rowena's face of immense concentration, and Rowena's purple ones meet his unwaveringly.

Sam flushes when he recognizes how close they are and makes the mistake of looking at her red, moving lips. There's something intimate in their present situation that Sam is afraid to voice out since before this, before when—

There's no pain to alert him for the tumultuous flashes of visions that assault him.

Sam sees a sea of green, but it's the woman that stands perilously at the edge that catches him. It's Rowena, her red hair cascading on her back and clashing against the whiteness of her dress. She turns around to him with a smile and his name on her lips.

Sam sees a throne next that is all sharp edges and dark luster. On the throne sits a woman—it's Rowena, with an obsidian crown atop her head and her dress a heap of black fabric torn at the edges that touches the steps that lead to her. She looks at Sam, and she calls him her king.

Sam sees the next scene where Rowena is perched on a chestnut horse, her hair and yellow dress billowing in the wind while she runs freely with her steed. She halts near Sam and waves, sending him a blowing kiss.

Sam sees an altar with gleaming foreign idols where at their feet is a person kneeling down in a prayer. The silvery veil is flimsy enough to show streaks of scarlet hair. It's Rowena's face that greets Sam when she stands, though younger, much younger, and when she finds Sam her smile lights up even her young emerald eyes.

Sam sees her again, only this time amidst the crowd and under the dim lighting and neon lights. The air is smoky, but like a beacon, Sam spots the red hair and the swaying woman in a skimpy, glittering dress. She's laughing when she catches Sam's eyes on her, and with a wink, she beckons him closer while the music plays.

And Sam gets more flashes that send his mind reeling as if watching multiple channels at once and trying to understand what's going on in all of them.

The one thing they shared is Rowena associated in different scenarios, always looking at Sam held with fondness. They're all her but at the same time not at all.

"Samuel?" Rowena—_his _Rowena—speaks, her voice effectively cutting through the flood of images. Her familiar face hovers worriedly over Sam, and it finally occurs to him that she already stopped using her magic. "Are you alright?" she asks gently.

They might be brief visions, but they're plenty enough for Sam to know the differences between the Rowena touching his face now and those he saw.

Sam doesn't understand still how they all connect with the gunshot wound, but what he saw… they're an improvement with the first one.

"I'm fine," Sam croaks out, unconsciously leaning to her touch. He likes the feeling of her fingers splay across his cheeks. "Just…"

"What is it, Samuel?"

Sam sighs and his arms encircle her waist. He pulls her close until his forehead is against the silky fabric of her blouse. He wants her to hold him for a while like this.

"Of course, dear," he hears her say, and Sam thinks he must have said his wishes out loud.

Doesn't matter if it's embarrassing. Certainly not when Sam breathes and it's the smell of lavender and raspberries that fill him.

* * *

"Earlier, you never told me what you saw," Rowena says later, during nightfall when everyone turns in, and she and Sam are camped to the tiny space of the chemistry lab.

Sam can't will himself to sleep yet, and Rowena doesn't seem like she's eager to fall asleep on a threadbare sleeping bag. They're lying on their side and facing each other, and Sam can see a peek of her bare milky shoulder. He glances away before he can be seen staring.

Something tells him she already did.

"Eyes up here, Samuel," she remarks with a quirk of her mouth. She gets the desired effect to see him blush—Sam's doing a lot of that in the last ten hours, he notices. "So? What is it?"

Sam shifts. "I don't know exactly," he admits.

"Can you be more vague?"

Sam smiles wryly, and, faintly, he wonders how she'll react if he says he only saw different versions of her. "Thank you, by the way."

"I didn't heal you, Samuel. I only got to sense the strong foreign magic from your wound, which, I suppose you already know without my help."

"I didn't know it has a touch of magic." Sam is particularly concerned when she said it's strong, and as much as he hates that there's a lingering essence of Chuck in the injury, he can't do anything about it at the present, not when there's the immediate need to send the souls back to Hell. "Dean doesn't needle me about it because I told him it's healing the same way a normal gunshot wound does, but I'm aware that it's anything but normal. Cas too, I think."

Rowena hums and accepts it. "Then you'll have to let me see that again tomorrow. After we close the rupture."

Sam doesn't like to be reminded of the big day, but at this point, it's ridiculous of him to think so. Still, there's anxiety whether they can do it. It's not that he doesn't believe in Rowena, but a lot can go wrong in the plan no matter how solid it was made. And for this one, any form of mistake can be catastrophic. It's not just their lives on the line here.

"You're too young to worry too much, Samuel," Rowena says. She reaches up to flick his forehead, dissolving the deep frown that appeared on Sam. "I'm the only one who can do the spell perfectly."

Sam doesn't disagree. He might as well be speaking to the strongest witch of the era, and she's right there beside him, camping on a high school when the world is possibly a frail barrier away from the end of it.

"I can't help it," he says. "Overthink, I mean."

"What, part of the big brooding man charm?"

"It shouldn't be charming, but I guess you can say that," Sam humors her. He wants to avoid thinking about tomorrow, and if there will be one after. He wants to stay optimistic like the first day, that they can do this, and once all is done and with Chuck finally gone, it'll be alright again in this world.

So Sam says, tactlessly, the first unrelated thing that enters his mind: "So you and Ketch."

Sam immediately knows it's the wrong thing to say when Rowena actually looks delighted. "What about us?"

"You know," he says vaguely, already regretting mentioning it.

"Ah." Rowena raises an eyebrow, lips curling to a triumphant smirk of sorts. "Why, jealousy is unbecoming of you, Samuel."

"I'm not—you know what? Forget I said it."

"Hm. Hard not to," she says with a lilt in her voice. "Especially when we're lying here mere inches from each other. What's a girl to think, Sam?"

Sam can't stop the small huff of laugh that escapes him. "I don't know. How about thinking someone just cared?"

For a millisecond, she looks startled at the admission. "Truly? Huh. That's… touching, but I'd say that they forget I can take care of myself."

"You know it's not about that. It's—You know Ketch. You mentioned that he tortured you before, and that wasn't really a healthy start."

"And you think I deserve someone better?" Rowena snorts. "Do you propose that you're better, Samuel?"

Sam tries not to flinch at her bluntness. No, he doesn't think that—in fact, if one is to ask that ugly part of him, it'll say that he's even worse; Sam has hurt and killed numerous times, and he has a hand in a couple of deaths. And for what? To save Dean and those he loves.

Sam is no better than any killer out there: he merely finds the right justification and with the power of 'the greater good' behind his decisions.

"I'm not. Better, I mean," he answers, though he's unable to meet her eyes.

Something softens in her features like she knows exactly what's going on inside Sam's head. "If you think you're no better, then I wonder what you think of me," she says quietly. She's thoughtful for a moment, lips twitching. "They say that we're more inclined to people we think we deserve, which is why the company a person keeps says a lot about someone."

Sam shifts on his back, gaze at the bluish ceiling above. That sounds about right, he thinks wryly, it explains a couple of things.

He hears the rustle of blanket and finds Rowena mimicking his position. "Ketch could have been a fine distraction. Strapping and a capable man like him," Rowena says wistfully after a while. "Though if I'm to choose someone to spend the rest of my time with before the end of the world, I know it won't be him."

Sam is aware what's left unsaid, and he considers saying the same, but he'll be lying, not because he doesn't want it to be her but rather he knows he's one of the people who won't accept the end.

He'll be one of the people who will do everything to stop it.

The fact that Rowena is here means she's that kind of person too.

Sam's right hand moves and latches on to a smaller one with fingers seeking to entwine with his. Sam turns up his palm and weaves their fingers together.

He falls asleep holding her hand and to the lull of various visions not quite unrelated to what he saw earlier, except there's more to them now, more detailed with intimate moments like Sam holding a version of Rowena, kissing her, falling asleep beside her, eating together with her, laughing with her, and sitting side by side watching the sunset with her.

For once, there's clarity in the scenes as if they're painting a picture or telling a series of stories to him, and Sam readily welcomes them and acknowledges that he's living in one of them at the present.

* * *

The funny thing is, Sam's right in the end: nothing ever goes as planned.

He takes comfort on the fact that they're not scrapping the bottom of the barrel yet; there's a Plan B, and that in itself keeps him optimistic still.

He can do this, he convinces himself while most of the texts on the note fly over his head. He's distracted by the noises coming from outside, coming from the rupture. Sam should be out there with Dean, fighting.

But Sam's needed here too, with Rowena, and he knows she's right that magic is fighting too.

What Sam doesn't understand is how he's suitable for this kind of offense as well. The closest to magic he did are the exorcisms here and there and the psychic abilities he used to have.

"I can't memorize it within a short time," he admits with a regrettable sigh. "I'll still help you, but I don't think I can do much with the spell."

Sam expects her to roll her eyes at him and tuts that it's not the right time for Sam to bring out his dramatic insecurities. However, Rowena merely blinks at him patiently and with a look of understanding.

"How's your wound?" Rowena asks instead, incongruously.

"It's not hurting." Not since Rowena's magic touched it, he thinks. "Rowena, what does it have to—"

She looks relieved. "Good. Let's hope it won't act up at the wrong time then." She fusses around the makeshift altar and places the ground myrrh in the bowl.

"Rowena—" Sam begins.

"Och. No second-guessing yourself now, Samuel," she tells him. She stares at Sam and holds his gaze firmly. "I meant what I said when you're the closest to a seasoned witch I got, and I don't throw that line carelessly, Sam. You have the right aptitude for witchcraft, and with the right guidance, we can make a skillful warlock out of you."

Sam considers her words. He's absently fascinated with witchcraft, especially the kind used by the very few white witches he knows, but with Rowena, a powerful witch, throwing the possibility right at his face that he has never thought of before makes him think of what-ifs.

After his addiction to demon blood and the good that it did him, Sam learned to be averse with his own capabilities despite knowing his psychic powers were a part of him since he was an infant. He hates his abilities due to the unsavory remembrance that comes along with them, of the beings like Azazel and Ruby that he wants to desperately forget, and of the horrible phase he went through.

But what if he could use them for good? What if he turns it to something positive that can empower not only the broken part of him that holds all the blood on his hands but others as well, others who need his help?

Sam is barely aware when Rowena crosses the distance between them. She steps inside his bubble with certainty in her steps and determined eyes.

She reaches for his face, gingerly turning him to her. "You can do this, Sam. I believe in you."

And, oh, she means that. She's not saying it for the sake of snapping him out of his nerves.

There's a quake that breaks the moment, but it doesn't lessen one bit the surge of resolute Sam feels. He nods at her with new resolve, and Rowena smirks at him with pride.

Rowena holds up her hands at him and Sam readily joins theirs together.

He and Rowena can do this.

* * *

Sam understands only half of the words he's uttering, but he feels _it_.

He's unsure what 'it' is, yet he's confident that something is happening now, with the rupture, with him, with Rowena, with the spell they're performing, with the connection between them, with the atmosphere that surrounds them, and with the wound on his shoulder.

And Sam might be imagining it—call it wishful thinking, even—but he thinks somewhere distant, something is happening to Chuck too.

Then all of a sudden it starts to go wrong, and when Sam calls Dean to ask what happened and racks his brain for the remaining options they have if there's any at all, Rowena is removing the last resurrection sachet from her shoulder and claims that only her death will fix the situation.

* * *

Sam breathes in and out.

She's testing him, and he knows it. Rowena knows that the sure-fire way to egg Sam on to kill her is to throw at his face the stakes, and what greater stake than the world is there for Sam other than Dean?

Rowena knows them, knows that they'll do anything for each other and damn everything else if it's Dean's or Sam's life on the line.

Sam breathes in and out.

"No," he says, and there's no surprise in her.

She thinks she did it, that she could push him.

Sam's hand remains steady on the knife, and there's a force in Rowena's grip that's pulling enough for the pointed end of the blade to press dangerously against her stomach.

The flashes of scenes with Rowena in them return ominously, and they feature death and blood and a lot of regrets. It's only about her again, except this time she's dying over and over in different ways and with Sam unable to do anything about them.

Sam breathes in and out.

He drops the knife and lets it clatter on the ground.

"You have to kill me, Sam." There are tears when she hisses at him. "It's only you who will bring my permanent demise."

"No," Sam insists. He holds her arms, and he wants to shake her if that's what it has to take to make her see sense. "There has to be another way. I _know_ it."

He chalks it up to denial, this conviction, or perhaps it's the refusal to accept her request, or his unpreparedness to lose her.

Maybe it's all at once.

_No_. Sam won't lose her today.

His wound begins to sear, though there's no intense pain. It aches though only to make itself known as if wanting Sam to acknowledge it in the middle of the turbulent emotions he's experiencing.

It's a subconscious of sorts when he finally does.

It is a pure force, a pure white bolt of energy that unfurls from his shoulder. Sam thinks that this is how being hit by a strike of lightning must have felt like, only it doesn't kill him but rather opens his consciousness, his body, and his mind like it flays every atom that makes up Sam Winchester.

There's an outside pull, and Sam sees a series of links made up of bright purple hue that insistently seeks to make a connection with him. They're all Rowena and her magic, and Sam allows them, reaching and enveloping all that force in a blanket of his own making as his attempt to protect her, effectively binding the two forces together into one.

A gasp resounds from the plane outside of where Sam is in. He crosses the threshold and returns back to the present by simply opening his eyes.

He sees Rowena—not only the Rowena in his arms and pressed against his chest but all the versions of her across multiple realities who are at death's door: the older one to the younger one; the one with curly red hair to the one with long flowing black locks; the one with emerald eyes to the one with hazel ones; the one who acts on the stage to the one who is homely—

Life breathes them back, and they wake simultaneously with sharp exhales.

He sees himself, too, as the person who loves the same woman who is apparently brought back by a miracle: the daughter of a high lord, the Queen of Hell, the head priestess of the gods, the woman who enjoys her newfound freedom, the woman he randomly met in a bar—

There's a multitude of him and her, and yet Sam sees the two of them more clearly than ever.

When Sam kisses her, the same thing happens across several space and time.

* * *

Sam feels weightless, in the sense that he no longer feels the gravity of the situation.

He snaps his fingers, and solely through his will, he lets the chaos right itself.

The fabric of the universe morphs into what it thinks will appease him, like a creation that can bend and stretch itself in all directions to satisfy its own creator's wishes.

"Thank you," he whispers to no one and to _everything _there is.

For now, he savors the time he's given with the woman he wants to spend it with.

* * *

**_fin_**


End file.
